


In The Cold Light of day

by InkBlight



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, The Healing Church is fucked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23296330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkBlight/pseuds/InkBlight
Summary: The Hunter awakens to a Yharnam Sunrise.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	In The Cold Light of day

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This is my first fanfiction and I'm very new to this whole experience. I finished Bloodborne recently and it put me in a bit of energetic mood. Becoming an alien squid thing was not in my expected outcomes when I first booted up the game. Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this drivel of mine and hopefully you can leave me with some much-needed constructive criticism.

Underneath the pale moonlight, flames engulfed the ancient stone of the workshop, sending the familiar scent of embers and blood deep into the Hunter’s nostrils. Once, that scent would have drawn into the throes of euphoria, the thrill of the Hunt had washed away the Fear in his blood. He had grown beyond the pale man dying in the blood-soaked oaken wooden floors of Iosefka’s clinic, now he was a Hunter. One who slew feral beasts and dared to stand against even the Gods themselves.

The Messengers stared at the Hunter, their thin emancipated arms stretched out weekly towards him at the garden of the workshop, beckoning him to give away the ancient echoes of Yharnam. Traders of tools for a Hunt that may never end. He paid them no mind save for a mild nod. His Hunt was over.

“Good Hunter, you have come. Dawn will soon break, this night and this dream will end. Gehrman awaits you, at the foot of the great tree.” The Doll spoke and the Hunter wished that he had indeed heard an echo of longing in the Doll’s voice, one last reminder of the great Lady of the Astral Clocktower.

“Thank you. For everything.” The Hunter gave a shaky smile.

He felt cool porcelain hands grab his hands.

“No. Thank you, Good Hunter. Gehrman sleeps with a peace that I do not remember. I pray that whatever choice you make; you can find comfort in it as well.” The Doll spoke softly.

He grasped his hands around hers and smiled. His square jaw was taut as he smiled. His sagging eyebags told of eyes that had seen far too much for one night. The Doll felt something stir inside her, faint echoes of human emotion that threatened to leave her with longing and despair. Gehrman had called it ‘sorrow’ and she had felt it ever since Gehrman had freed the first paleblood hunter but now she felt it far more keenly.

A liquid pooled around her eyes, the same liquid which had gathered since the time the Good Hunter had given her a small hair ornament. Something she had kept on her throughout the entirety of this eternal night.

The Good Hunter wiped it away and gave the Doll a gentle hug. One which they both easily melted into. It felt odd to the touch, there was no flesh for the hunter to seek warmth in but the cool porcelain was comforting enough especially when the Doll returned it with one of her own. It was a goodbye and they both knew that the other would never return again.

The Hunter bid her farewell. She was a facet of the Dream that he had wished would never leave him. Warm and caring in a place of sanctuary safe from the orgy of bloodlust and beasts that had become of the Waking World. Yharnam was filled with suffering. Blood filled its canals while bodies were left to rot in the gutters and houses. Even with the Hunt finished, its recovery would be slow and he had no doubt that the Healing Church would survive despite all the efforts he had made.

With a bow, he turned and walked the beaten path towards the Great Tree. Around him, the graves of numerous hunters stood as reminders to the contract that he had signed. Each of them was a Hunter that had slain their own nightmares binding them to the Dream. And soon, his grave would be there as well. A Hunter without a dream; exactly like Eileen and Djura.

Finally, he opened the rusted gates towards the Tree.

Pale petals danced across the wind as a field of a hundred asphodels filled the Hunter’s eyes. Underneath the Great Tree, he saw Gehrman waiting for him. Around them, he could see hundreds more gravestones bearing the names of Hunters forgotten throughout time. Each step towards his Mentor felt as though he was riding high towards a climax that he would never find satisfying yet yearned for all the same.

Finally, the Hunter stood before the man he had considered as a mentor, a comrade, and more importantly, a friend.

“Good Hunter, you've done well, the night is near its end. Now I will show you mercy. You will die, forget the dream, and awake under the morning sun. You will be freed from this terrible Hunter's Dream." Gehrman smiled though it was clear to the Hunter that he had recited these words to countless others, the words were tinged with relief and the sorrow of a man who would inevitably lose another friend.

Words spilled out of the Hunter before he could stop them. “I’m sorry.”

Gehrman raised an eyebrow and said, “Sorry? Whatever for, Good Hunter? The Scourge of the Beastial Curse has been ceased. Your contract has been fulfilled. I daresay you’ve fulfilled your part of the bargain.”

The Hunter shook his head, his dull grey eyes seemed to sag beyond the dark leather of the tricorn of his Hunter’s cap.

“I’m sorry for leaving you here. I’m sorry for not being able to save anybody.”

Gehrman gave a soft sigh before turning his eyes towards the pale moon looming over them. “Do not apologize, Good Hunter. This is my penance for the sins I have committed. Just as the Nightmare trapped Ludwig so too am I trapped in this Hunter’s Dream.”

The Good Hunter’s shoulders sagged, “I have been gifted with tools of arcane madness and weapons of gun and blade. Yet with all this power, I couldn’t save a father from falling to madness nor that of the soul of his partner. Tell me Gehrman, will there ever be an end to the Hunt?”

The Old Hunter stayed quiet. And that was the only answer that the Hunter had needed.

“I had wished to save them all. Though their words stung of poisoned hate and resentment, they did not deserve the madness and death brought to them by the Healing Church. Now, Yharnam’s citizens have become the very beasts that they so greatly feared.” The Hunter sighed, “The Healing Church imbibed on knowledge and blood never meant to fall into human hands and with the Hunt ending, I have no doubt they will try again.”

“Laurence…” Gehrman muttered. Hazy memories of an old friend who had existed in a time when the Hunt was a simpler affair. A time before eldritch knowledge had consumed them both to becoming puppets of beings far beyond the ken of mortal sensibilities. A time when the adage ‘Fear the Old Blood’ was not forgotten and discarded.

“I have gained much insight during my travels, Gehrman.” The Good Hunter spoke softly and gestured one of his hands towards the Moon. “I know that the Great Ones had long left us behind, free to drift upon thoughts and dimensions that we cannot possibly fathom. Yet there a few which remain. I have slain the ones I could. The Daughter of the Cosmos lies slain in the Altar of Despair. The Orphan is free and I have slain the follies of the Church. I have come only to one conclusion.”

“Pray tell, Good Hunter. What is it?”

“The Hunter’s Dream must not be disturbed. For so long as the Healing Church exists, so too will this cycle remain. Is it not a strange miracle that only moon-scented hunters can resist succumbing to the blood-lust inside? Only with the help of the Moon Presence can the Hunt be stopped. I am hesitant to say this but is it not true?”

The Good Hunter was not an idealist. He had no doubt that the Moon Presence’s motives were as inscrutable as its brethren but it had displayed a degree of benevolence that the Great Ones were incapable of. He likened Yharnam’s Hunt to that of an infection. The Scourge was an infection and the Hunt is merely the response of the Body towards this infection with the Paleblood Hunters serving as the body’s soldiers to stave it off. In a way, it was a grotesque imitation of a body fighting off a virus. Yet the source of it would always remain, the Church.

"Ah, you have gained much insight, Good Hunter. But what do you intend to do with this knowledge?” Gehrman muttered.

Wordlessly, the Good Hunter knelt down into the soil. A part of him raged against this. The same side inside of him that reveled in the Hunt’s thrill, one that loved nothing more than to bathe in the blood of unknowable creatures as he danced a ballad of death and destruction. Even now, it took much of his willpower to stop the beast inside from taking over.

He watched an expression flicker past Gehrman’s face, disappointment? Maybe so, but he could see relief as well. Whatever the case, he had made his position known, it was now time for his Hunt to end.

His mentor stood up from the grimy wheelchair.

“Before we do this, I’d like to request something.” The Good Hunter said as he watched the Burial Blade in all its glory. The siderite metal glinted softly underneath the moonlight sky. It snaked around the Hunter’s neck and though the dark leather of his Hunter’s Garb offered substantial protection against fang and claw, it would cut through as quick as silk if tales of Gehrman’s skills were to be believed.

“What is it you desire?” Gehrman muttered, his hands gripped firmly on the handle of the scythe. It was almost comforting to hear, like a reaper tending to a lost soul.

“Treat the doll with a bit more kindness.” Was all the Hunter simply said.

There was a brief silence before Gehrman said, “Farewell, my keen hunter. Fear the blood."

Underneath the pale moonlight void of the Hunter’s Dream, there was no fight between two warriors of unparalleled might. Only the swift movement of a reaper’s blade and the soft thump of a body crumpling into the ground.

At the foot of a tree near the burning Workshop, the Pale Doll sees another headstone rise up from the dark earth.

“Farewell, Good Hunter. May you find your worth in the Waking World.” She whispered as she knelt down to pray.

* * *

At the steps to Oedon Chapel, the Good Hunter awakened in a tired slump. He leaned at the base of a concrete wall with his body no worse for the wear. Hesitantly, he held his neck, before rising up. The boots dug into the concrete steps as he took tentative steps towards the main entrance of the chapel.

Around him, the toll of Church Bells rang all over. Whether it was a man or _something else_ that rang them remained up for debate. It was Yharnam after all, most of the time it was better not to know.

High above him, the crimson hue of the Blood Moon vanished replaced by the comforting blanket of summer skies. Warmth enveloped the Hunter as he took his first steps in the light of day.

He passed through the inner gate of the chapel. The Old Woman was sat down on her chair, surrounded by numerous empty vials by the concrete floor. Her eyes were glassy almost milky white in form. They stared off into nothingness. Foam bubbled around her mouth as spit and blood dripped from her open mouth onto the concrete floor. Her arms were folded and were set neatly on her blouse. She had been dead for a long while.

Adella fared slightly better. The nun was curled up into a fetal position by her side of the chapel, sobbing and laughing before spouting unknowable words. She babbled incoherently in unknowable tongues, languages that the Hunter doubted that the nun even understood, lost to the throes of madness. She paused in her ravings before taking a mad look at the hunter. Her eyes held a frenzy to them that he had seen in Yharnam’s streets.

“You! Good hunter, brave hunter, foolish hunter. You took a glimpse into greatness and you cast it aside? Oh, what a poor fool you are.” Adella gave a shrill giggle.

The Hunter gave her a cold stare before saying “I chose sanity. I choose to be a Man.”

The Nun burst into hideous laughter. “Sanity? What is sanity but an obstacle to achieving enlightenment? You had the chance to walk with the Gods. The cords, the knowledge, the vials, don’t you see? You were so close yet chose to ape around the world as a Man. You fear ascension. Your sanity is the true madness of this world. What is the worth of humanity when on the cusp of Godhood?” Adella finished with a laugh.

The Hunter said nothing. Did he make the right choice? Should he have fought Gehrman? Even now the cords squirmed inside his satchel, beckoning him with more insights into the cosmic world. They offered him sensations beyond belief, of nirvana that the most potent of blood could never hope to achieve. Most of all they offered knowledge, knowledge to questions that would have driven any sane man into the brink of insanity.

He snapped his eyes shut and decided no. No, it was not worth it. He had left Gehrman in the Dream and the best he could do was live his life. It was too late for regrets now. There was no telling what would have happened if he had tried to kill the Moon Presence or what would have happened if he had failed.

Looking at the other corner of the chapel, the suspicious man was gone. No doubt he had wanted to leave the chapel, a xenophobe til the end. Behind him, Adella continued her mutterings.

Arianna sat languidly on her chair as usual. She threw the Hunter a shaky smile. There were no words that needed to be shared between the two after that _incident._

“I take it you’re still not going to accept my blood, darling?” She gave a quick laugh, one filled with no small amount of nervousness.

The Hunter stared at her for a short second, mouth agape in visible confusion. He erupted into full-blown laughter and said, “I believe I’ve been covered in enough blood for one night. I do appreciate the offer though; I do hear Yharnam is quite well known for its hospitality.”

“More’s the pity. Though, I can’t believe that we made it through. It’s a bit sad that not everyone in this little family survived or at least made it through with their wits about them.” Arianna said as she looked over, a sad glint in her eyes as she looked at the old woman and the raving Adella.

“Best we can do is live. Tell me, what do you intend to do now that morning’s here?” The Good Hunter asked.

“I’ll do what I’ve always done. Survive. Pleasure is one of the few things that Yharnam values as highly as blood, although the two do go hand-in-hand. But what about you, Hunter? Where shall you go?”

The Hunter gave a shrug. Potential careers didn’t really register when each second was a journey towards life and death.

“I believe I have grown fond of Yharnam. Perhaps, we shall meet again. Under better circumstances of course.”

“As much as I’ve enjoyed our chats, I do hope you’ll be paying for these _visits_ of yours.” Arianna smirked. The Hunter’s eyes widened. She had regained some of the spirit she had lost during that cursed night. One of the many things that the Great Ones had destroyed during their foray into reality.

The Good Hunter shook his head with a smile and turned away from the woman. He had noticed the lamp stopped shining. The mist of the Dream had disappeared. And the Hunter felt an ache in his heart knowing that he had left the Doll for good. Shrugging these thoughts from his mind, he plastered a gentle smile, there was still one more friend he had to pay a visit to.

“Ah! I-I thought you wouldn’t come back, Good Hunter. In any case, it’s nice to see you again. Did you give it some thought to my suggestion? Yeah? Of course, if you don’t want to, then that’s fine, I know it’s my fault. Dawn’s breaking and you helped me make a difference in tonight’s hunt…” The Oedon Chapel Dweller trailed off, his arms were frantically making appeasing gestures.

“I have indeed considered your suggestion and I am honored that you would consider me a friend.” The Good Hunter said as he laid his tricorn hat at his chest. “Throughout my Paleblood Hunt, you have provided sanctuary for these people. For that, I am in your debt.”

"Hehehe, you’ve no idea how happy those words make this old fellow feel. I’m all giddy inside. Truly, you’ve no idea how much this means to me, Good Hunter. All my life, people never gave me not one bit of their time. But you? You gave me a fighting chance to start over. Hee-hee. Oh, and before I forget, there’s someone here to see you.” The Dweller laughed with no end of awkwardness that the Hunter had grown fond of.

“Oh? I don’t see anybody else here though? Aside from the others” The Good Hunter muttered, his hands were already reaching towards his back to grasp at his favorite weapon, the oversized monstrosity of a Hunter’s Axe that had served him well throughout the hunt. Was it the Church? Or more likely a survivor from the Choir who must have realized that he had slain their favorite blood pumping God.

“Somebody with a funny accent. Called herself an ‘old crow’. Kind lady, left me quite a few of those coins. From the sound of things, you two would get along quite well. Said she’d be waiting for you by the old study down below.”

“Thank you.” The Good Hunter said with a smile. He knew that the Hunter of Hunters had no end of tricks and skills up her sleeves and sure enough, she had disappeared off into the night after their time hunting the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst. Clearly, the Hunter of Hunters had enough strength to continue the Hunt. Time would tell what manner of help she would require. He would have to be careful, he no longer felt the tethers bounding his soul to the Dream. He had one chance; death would end him and if he was lucky, that would be the end of it.

He bowed and gave his farewell to the robed creature. The trip to the study was uneventful with only the thudding of boots into concrete steps giving any sign of human life into the darkness.

The study was exactly as the Hunter had left it. Tables full of yellowed scrolls and theological tomes of the Church were strewn all over the place. The smell of blood and parchment filled the air, another reminder of the Church’s mistakes.

“Well now, I can’t say it’s a surprise to see you here. I take it the Hunt’s over then?” The voice of Eileen cut through the darkness. She looked no worse for the wear. The gaping claws that had sundered her legs were gone, her trousers as pristine as the day he had seen her. Her garb was no worse for wear save for a few of the feathers in her cape were tattered and it seemed to have lost quite a few more. She still wore her signature doctor’s mask, the elongated beak mask obscured any sign of the enigmatic woman’s face. The Blades of Mercy hung by her back, a solemn reminder of her profession.

The Hunter nodded, “Yes, the nightmare has been slain. Though, I suppose that means I can no longer dream.”

The Crow gave a harsh bark of laughter, “You have one chance, same as the rest of us. You’ll adapt that’s what we hunters do best after all. A Hunter must Hunt after all.”

“What else is there to hunt? Sunrise has arrived and I’ve no doubt in my mind that the Church still has members left to continue operating. By morning’s end, what little beasts that remain would be slaughtered and put to the torch.” The Good Hunter asked.

“Ah, the prey I refer to is not beasts, though I surely wish they were. Beast Hunting is a far simpler affair than what I intend to do.” Eileen said cryptically.

“What manner of prey do you refer to?”

“A type of prey that poses far more of a threat than maddened hunters or beastkin alike. A prey whose madness is not that of the mind but of the soul. Prey of a caliber that is insidious as those _things_ that threated to drive Yharnam into madness that night.”

“The Healing Church.” The Hunter said breathlessly.

“I may not have the full truth but I know something happened in the night of your hunt. Something that I and an old friend agree that you know about.”

“An old friend?” The Hunter was drawing blanks. He didn’t know much about the Old Crow save that she knew much more than what she let on about Gascoigne and Henryk. Perhaps it was another survivor of the Hunt? A veteran just as Simon was.

The Crow said nothing and instead motioned for the Hunter to follow her. Left with no other choice, the Good Hunter followed her down the ladder leading to the depths of the sewers.

In his previous life as a man of soldiery, he had grown accustomed to savage scents and it showed as the Hunter did not react to the miasma of waste and fetid water that blasted all over his face despite the thick cloth surrounding his mouth. Eileen gave an approving nod. An ironic thing to do for someone who had lavender and incense inside of her mask.

When they had reached Oedon’s Tomb, the Good Hunter found himself at a loss of words.

Ancient stone and masonry lied broken. The bodies of a few men were strewn about all over the place, bleeding into the damp soil where the Good Hunter had slew the formerly gallant duo. As the Hunter knelt down by the corpse of one of the deceased humans. He saw the clean slashes from the Blades of Mercy whereas a few were missing huge chunks , he noticed something. Their robes at one point were pristine white though they were slick with blood, their tricorns were the signature hat of the Hunter but the quicksilver caps obscuring their eyes spoke of their true allegiance. He could see their hands clutching empty phantasm shells and ephemeral blue slugs, these men and women were Choir Intelligence.

“Well now. I see you’ve finally stopped dreaming.” Djura said as he stood up from his spot by the now defunct-lamp. The Ashen Hunter was slick with blood. Whether it be from beast nor man, the Hunter could not tell. His hands held his signature stake driver, the thick silver stake dripped the sanguine nectar down the stone as he stood up. He was panting heavily, the exertion of old age catching up to him despite the power of the ancient echoes boosting his skills beyond the norm.

“Djura? What are you doing here?” The Good Hunter asked.

The Ashen Hunter gave a pointed look towards the Crow, “Why, the very same reason our mutual friend approached you. We’re hunters without a hunt or a dream. But, we all agree on one very important thing. Don’t we?”

“The Healing Church must be stopped.” The Good Hunter concluded.

“So, what say you, merciless Hunter? Our goals are aligned. The people of Yharnam have suffered enough at the hands of the Church. By the break of Dawn, the Church will have reestablished its presence once more. And by that point, I’ve no doubt idea what the Choir intends to do to us but it will not be merciful.”

The Good Hunter took a moment to think, “What exactly do we intend to do?”

Djura gave a ghastly smile, "Why, Good Hunter. I'd expect you to know exactly what we Hunters do best by now."

With a sigh, the Good Hunter nodded. His Hunt it seemed, was not truly over.

With that, the three dreamless Hunters left to face off the biggest prey yet. And as they left the silent tomb of the unknowable Old One, the Good Hunter took a second to stare high above him.

A Yharnam sunrise truly was a beautiful thing.


End file.
